


There is Only Darkness at the Finish

by idyllicmeadows



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Character Death, M/M, One Shot, a couple of hashtag cringe lines i must say, expect a "?" in there somewhere i think i kept that in, i can't write and ninety-nine percent of my muse comes from songs, most of this was written at ungodly hours of the night and was proofread very poorly, the title is a barricade by stars reference. killer song 10/10 would cry again, there are like three very vague greek mythology references because i felt smart, they kiss however it is still sad, vaguely canon self indulgent daydream material, victor hugo is a liar and i choose to ignore everything he says
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyllicmeadows/pseuds/idyllicmeadows
Summary: “Enjolras despises me-- and I may just say that I feel the same in return,” Grantaire would say each time the topic of their leader in red would come about. But you see, neither of those sentiments were necessarily true, and therefore he was making his way to the Musain alone at the time of night when the streets were cold and empty. It was where he knew Enjolras would surely still be.The night of June third, Grantaire attempts one final time to convince Enjolras that martyrdom is a fruitless endeavor. Somehow, the subsequent events make saying goodbye even more difficult.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	There is Only Darkness at the Finish

_June 3rd, 1832: 23h00_

The air was still, quiet other than for the sound of faint breathing and the occasional _tap_ of a quill being dipped into ink. A lingering feeling of hope, of anticipation, hung over the tables of the Musain like a thin veil. 

There were but two days until the funeral of General Lamarque; two days had passed since the news had broken. And since then, the Friends of the ABC had been using every waking moment to prepare for it. They took advantage of the back room of the Cafe Musain to hold their meetings-- as they had been doing for years. For so long, the students had waited for an opportunity such as the one now presented in front of them. They had prayed for a sign, something to strike a match in the hearts of the people of France and ignite a flame of change, and now here they were. Lamarque-- the timing of his death was almost perfect, almost godsent. 

And so we are brought to the very back room, in which a single candle illuminated a single table; there resided the leader of the insurgents himself-- Enjolras.

Maps of Paris littered with annotation, half-finished speeches, letters to loved ones created a barrier around his lone work surface and the outside world. Ink stained the tips of his fingers, and subsequently produced streaks of black on his temple every time he would brush strands of golden hair behind his ear. He had surpassed the need for sleep, having not left the Musain except to run errands around the city and distribute pamphlets. Often his eyes would close subconsciously during the day, and he would find himself waking up ten minutes later by the shake of Combeferre or Courfeyrac, who, to note, were greatly worried for his well being.

 _“Enjolras, please, go home. Even just for a short while,”_ Combeferre would say upon noticing his bloodshot eyes fighting to stay open. He would be met with a defiant, exasperated glare and blatant disregard. 

When he did sleep, however, it was not with ease. Both doubt and the mortifying feeling of fear ate away at his mind; swirling nightmarish visions plagued his dreams and caused him to wake up fighting some invisible foe on the floor next to his bed. The sounds of gunshots and desperate yelling filled his ears when it became too quiet. It often was too quiet. 

Though Enjolras would never admit to such weakness, he was _terrified_ of the prospect of his friends dying, even if it was for their most beloved cause. 

He was running on fumes at this point, the hypnotic rise and fall of his chest being the only thing keeping him grounded in consciousness. The space was eerily silent without the occupation of his friends, but somehow the silence was louder than they could ever be.   
  
  


_23h20_

“Enjolras _despises_ me-- and I may just say that I feel the same in return,” Grantaire would say each time the topic of their _leader in red_ would come about. But you see, neither of those sentiments were necessarily true, and therefore he was making his way to the Musain alone at the time of night when the streets were cold and empty. It was where he knew Enjolras would surely still be.

He didn’t even _know_ why he took such a strong liking to Enjolras. His unabating idealistic disposition honestly made Grantaire want to throw him into the Seine. He would never understand it. (Or so he thought.)

But moving on. See, R frankly _did not care_ . It’s not like he _openly opposed_ most of their views (unless it was to set their leader off on a harangue.) He didn’t _care_ really, at all, not for what the students of the ABC had to say, nor what they wanted to change. Politically, at least. He enjoyed their presence, and on good days even called them all his friends. Jehan and his poetry, Joly’s relentless worrying; Grantaire honestly wouldn’t know how to deal if they were gone. 

Only Enjolras, did he not dare to allow himself to become close to. He knew that, someday, it would hurt him. It was cruel enough, now, to admire him from afar and know that his days were numbered, and that the numbers were running low. 

On occasion, Enjolras did show care to the cynic. Those nights were the worst. He tried drinking to forget, and he pushed him away. Neither worked. 

As he reached closer and closer to the corner of the street where the Musain could be found, an accumulation of dread began pooling in his stomach. 

“ _‘Aire, you good for nothing fool--_ ” Enjolras had said, no, muttered to him around a week ago during one of his notorious tirades. Under his breath-- not meant to make a scene, or call him out, or even spark another argument. It was a passive strike, mean for Grantaire and Grantaire alone. Enjolras may have not even _meant_ for him to hear it, but he did. Every word.

Why the hell was he even going to check on him? Did he really think that he could pull him out of what he’s created so easily? That Enjolras would suddenly abandon all hope for the future of France if it meant keeping his own life? Absolutely not. 

Yet, R opened the door. 

~~~

There was a suffocating silence that emitted from the back room, seeping through the barrier that Grantaire had broken by opening the door. 

The single candle illuminating Enjolras’s table was flickering violently-- the wick painfully close to the end of its life. Pale light from the moon streamed in through the window, however, illuminating his workspace and the surrounding tables. His golden hair shone where it laid surrounding his head, planted on the table. The vision was ethereal, and almost felt like a crime to witness. 

His overwhelming, effortless allure troubled Grantaire. He didn’t seem _real_ ; R wouldn’t be surprised if the concept of Enjolras was entirely something he made up in his mind and not a living, breathing, human being that walked on this earth and mercilessly shattered the existence of every single other person he came across. 

Grantaire sighed, releasing the stress that had wrapped itself around his chest. He assumed Enjolras was either asleep or dead, and hoping it wasn’t the latter, he made it a point not to disturb him. He would just sit, and wait for him to awake. Wait for however long need be. 

_00h05_

Much to R’s benefit, Enjolras didn’t wake up to see Grantaire sitting in a chair across from him and examining the various documents scattered around him in a circle. Instead, he was searching through cabinets for just one single candle with his back turned. He didn’t even notice that Enjolras had stirred from his sleep until he heard the too-familiar coo of his voice.

“‘Taire?” he croaked, causing him to nearly hit the ceiling with how high he jumped.

He didn’t know what to say. _Gods_ , how could he be so stupid to walk in and interrupt Enjolras’s precious _alone time_ and not even know what to say?

“I was just--” his voice jumped what seemed like three octaves above it’s normal tone. A breath, he began again, “Your candle-- it’s going to go out soon. I _know_ they keep at least a few stored in these cabinets, somewhere,” Grantaire struggled to maintain his calmness as he made direct, prolonged contact with the oceans churning in the other man’s eyes. 

“Why have you come here?” Enjolras finally spoke up. It wasn’t meant to be as passive aggressive as it came off as. 

The mood shifted at the question; why _was_ he there? What was he supposed to say? “ _Oh Apollo, I have decided to interpose on your important work to nicely ask you to call off this whole revolution concept that your entire life has revolved around up to this point!”_

“I-- I’m not sure,” he said instead. 

Grantaire felt as if he could melt through the floorboards. There was an uncomfortably long silence between them as he stared at the floor and Enjolras stared at him, neither knowing what to do or say. 

“Here, sit down,” gingerly spoke Enjolras, using his foot to kick out a chair at the table. He did, feeling as if the weight of the world had suddenly dropped on his chest. “I’ve been… writing letters to our friends,” _our_ friends, he made sure to specify. The designation made R smile softly. “In case things go awry on Tuesday, there are some things that I want them to know.” 

_Ah yes, just_ in case _they’re all murdered in cold blood after they corner themselves behind the barricades._

He wanted to shout at him, tell him there was no way in _heaven_ that his plans would succeed. But Enjolras probably _knew_ that already, and the thought of that was somehow even worse. He was so willing to just throw his life away; his friends were too. Grantaire would never understand it. (Or at least he thought.)

He sat down, though candleless, and sighed. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would receive a letter in a day’s time. He tried to fight this thought away-- such covetousness could only hurt him.

“ _Stay,_ ” Grantaire finally said. 

“What?” Enjolras furrowed his brow. 

“Don’t go to the funeral tomorrow. Don’t-- _die_.,” he struggled to choke out the words. “It won’t work. It just w--”

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ He screamed inside his head as he ran his hand through his dark hair. Tears pricked at the corner of Grantaire’s eyes while he fumbled to find words anyways. He didn’t dare avert his eyes from the table; he couldn’t bear to look at Enjolras, a bright shining sun, when he was already so helpless and _weak._

“You know I can’t just--” Enjolras began, contemplating what to say. His compassionate tone surprised the other man, and his casual act of grasping his hand that had been clenched on the table did even more. “We have been waiting for something like this to happen for months, now. We don’t know if Paris will ever be so moved to action again in our _lifetime_.”

He gently ran his thumb over the back of R’s hand which had softened in his grip, sending a tremor through his arm. His words, though dispiriting and painful to fall upon Grantaire’s ears, were delicate and spoken fondly. 

Grantaire knew this. Accepting it was more difficult. 

“You cannot expect me to just _watch_ as you all march to your deaths,” he spoke softly. He intertwined his fingers between those of Enjolras, and held his hand fast as he spoke as to draw attention away from the fact that his voice was faltering. “You have a whole life ahead of you-- friends, people who _love you._ What is getting yourself _killed_ going to accomplish?”

“Why do you _care_?” Enjolras responded, only a hint of bitterness tainting his words, “Why now, when you have never shown so much as a hint of interest before?”

He didn’t know how to reply.

“I’ve never understood why you even come to our meetings. You sit there in the back and run on about whatever comes to mind. And, God forbid _I_ say something invalid in your eyes, God forbid you find a flaw in my argument.” He had leaned back now, hand no longer with Grantaire’s, leaving him in the dark. There was an increasing fury brewing in Enjolras’s intoxicatingly larkspur eyes-- nothing he hadn’t watched before. “If you dislike us-- if you detest _me_ so immensely, then why do you not just _leave_?”

His words stung, though they weren’t intended to. Here they were, fighting once more. The plague of contretemps seemed to follow them, no matter the setting. 

“God, _Apollo,_ are you blind?” Grantaire lashed out, he too leaning away from the table. “I don’t hate you!” He finally stood up, anger and regret and self-pity all mixing together in his words; it was so difficult to finally vocalize the feelings that had been bottled up for years. He found himself dramatically flailing his hands, now balled into fists, as if that were to make the point any clearer. “I never hated you-- though I wish that I did! But how could someone hate _you,_ Enjolras, with your sickening, persistent kindness-- even towards someone like _me_ \-- and your charisma? I would do _anything_ for you, and I know everyone else who knows you would do the same. That is why--” He took a deep breath, fighting harder this time against the tears forming in the back of his eyes. Grantaire began again-- ending the crescendo he didn’t realize his voice made. “ _That_ is why I’m here. If you go, I will go with you.”

“Grantaire--” Enjolras tried cutting in. He too now was on his feet, mere inches away from him, yet still oceans apart. 

“ _I would follow you to the end of the earth if you would permit it._ ”

“Gran _taire--_ ” his hand now clasped tightly around Grantaire’s arm, Enjolras spoke his name, without a trace of the previous venom. The pain, tensity, and strain previously holding him down had alleviated, and suddenly, he was violently aware of the quick beating of his pulse, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the way his hands trembled. The whole world could disappear around them, and Enjolras would not have noticed a thing. He was vulnerable, delicate, terrifyingly _human._

For the first time in his life, he wanted to throw it all away. The barricades, the plans for Lamarque’s cortege-- burn them to the ground and dance in the ashes. Wait for another person to come along and finish what he had started-- to bring freedom to France and to be alive to see it. 

But he couldn’t. And he knew that. It didn’t take long to come back to reality, to realize how utterly powerless he truly was, to realize there was nothing he could do now to alter his die that had already been cast. However, there was one thing-- to seal the present, to change _something_ in these last few days. His hand moved to the side of Grantaire’s face, his thumb tracing light circles over his cheek. 

And he kissed him.

It wasn’t anything grand or over-the-top. Simply, it was doing what he could never express in words. What he had ignored-- shoved away for so long. The threat of his own death always loomed over his head, but now that it was so close, it vanished-- like nothing but a memory. 

A compulsive gasp escaped Grantaire’s throat, and Enjolras pulled away.

“Forgive me-- I shouldn’t have--” Enjolras’s breath hitched unintentionally when he looked into Grantaire’s eyes-- a hint of confusion, but otherwise no trace of anger or dismay. 

A hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, Grantaire’s lips on his-- this time, Enjolras was the one who gasped. 

His lips were soft-- laced with the taste of stale wine, encasing the years of regret and pain behind them. Enjolras lifted his hands to meet the sides of his face, leaning in closer to the embrace. 

He could’ve sworn that when he closed his eyes, he saw lightning strike him-- an unkillable Porphyrion. So close in each others’ arms, their heartbeats seemed to match. Shadows of the past were blurred; evaporated and blown away by the powerful, immovable wind. 

Yet, they were desperate, scared. The weight of the world and the looming threat of the barricade sat on their shoulders, and the prospect of death, especially now, was terrifying. 

Grantaire, arm now steadfastly wrapped around Enjolras’s waist, took a breath and slowly opened his eyes. 

This was _real._

Enjolras’s head was now resting over his shoulder; Grantaire tenderly ran his fingers through his blond curls. Neither of them spoke, yet the action said infinitely more than any string of words could ever even come close to. Their breathlessness, the creak of the floorboards settling, the gesture in which Enjolras affectionately trailed his hand up and down Grantaire’s upper back-- any other sounds and senses were drowned out by such. 

He moved his head up to press a gentle kiss to R’s forehead, brushing away the curly strands of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes with his other hand. 

“Stay away from here tomorrow. Lock yourself inside at home, close your windows, and—“ he took a shaky breath, “try to forget.”

Grantaire wanted to cry, to melt into Enjolras, to hold him and never let go. To be stuck in this exact moment forever, would be an ideal way to spend an eternity. The memory of his lips danced in his mind— he clung to the fleeting feeling as if it could seep through his fingertips. 

He knew what he had to do, and it wasn’t to stay away from the barricade. No matter what Enjolras told him, there was no way that he would, or even could continue living in the absence of his friends. 

“I fear no god, Apollo,” he pulled away from the embrace to look into Enjolras’s eyes, “Yet, the promise of death, mainly your death, it... terrifies me.”

 _Promise._ Nothing on this earth but our own expiration is promised. Grantaire would be reminded every time he visited the Musain. Enjolras was a glimpse of death, a quiet yet consistent whisper that reminded him that everything is merely temporary. Life, friendship, love, revolution. He shook his head. 

“ _I love you._ I am _so scared of losing you_ \-- and I don’t think I will be able to go on if you are gone.”

“Oh, ‘Taire,” Enjolras’s expression hardened for only a brief moment. He didn’t intend for it to be so harsh, yet it felt like a bullet making its way through Grantaire’s heart. “ _It will pass.”_

 _Vulnerable and weak,_ a glass bottle, easily knocked over and shattered everywhere. 

“I do not mean to be cruel. I couldn’t bear to leave things between us as they were, yet I cannot abandon our cause. Love is not what a revolution is for.”

“Is that so?” Grantaire looked up from the floor, tears finally stinging his eyes, “For the love of freedom, love of _Patria_ , if not for love, then for what do you fight?” 

He was right, Enjolras thought. For once, he did not have an answer. 

“I believe this is goodbye,” he began.

“I believe so as well.” 

“Either the future will bring us to meet under a better France, or somewhere not of this world, kinder and greater-- Elysian compared to what we now know,” his voice was barely above a whisper. 

Though Enjolras hoped it would not be the latter, he did believe they would meet again, in another time, or in another life. Or so, he hoped. 

Grantaire wanted to fling his arms around him and stay there forever, but he instead stood still, taking one last look into Enjolras’s eyes. He tried to ignore the thought of how they would look, glossed over and lifeless. 

He smiled sadly, shaking his head. He knew this would not be the last time they met-- Enjolras did not. Yet, it was still melancholy.

Grantaire turned on his heel, and left him alone again. And when the door closed behind him, Enjolras noticed that he was now fully engulfed in the darkness, save for the moonlight. The flame of the candle was no more. 

_June 7th, 9h00_

The day after, there was quiet. 

The blood had been cleansed off of the streets fairly quickly, bodies removed, barricades dismantled, yet the streets, mainly surrounding the Corinth, still were devoid of their crowds. Windows stayed shut, doors locked, and people inside. The fighting was over, yet they were still afraid. 

Enjolras would’ve hated it. _Would have,_ because he was now gone. His corpse was the last to be removed from the wine shop. 

The France he dreamt of would not come for a long while.

 _“I won’t go to his funeral,”_ Grantaire once said about him. He ended up being correct, though not in the way he intended. His body was carried out alongside Enjolras’s; his hand laid limp in the air, yet it appeared to be reaching out towards another, where it had slipped away from. A silent plea from beyond the earthly world to give some consolation.

But we all already know the story. 

Though the students were dead and gone, some carried on what they had begun. On the sixth of June every year, you could see Marius Pontmercy make his way around the city, stopping for a longer period of time when he approaches the Rue de la Chanvrerie. He whispers a prayer, moreso a conversation, under his breath, and he hopes his friends are waiting somewhere up above to hear them. 

After the events of June that year, the painting crafted by Delacroix was removed from the eye of the public. In Liberty, you can not only see a part of each student, but the insurgents of 1832 as a whole. An onlooker can look into the eyes of the boy to her right and picture themselves as he. Those in power fear what they cannot control-- art, emotion, passion. 

The Cafe Musain was perhaps the most silent place of all. Though unoccupied, the back room and its secret staircase remained untouched for a long time. It is one of the stops on Marius’s annual journey, but he does not spend too much time there. There, he finds himself to be consumed fully by the past. The way the stairs creak, the way it smells-- all brings the boy back to a time in which his friends were not buried in the ground. Sometimes, he thinks he even catches a glimpse of their shadows on the floor. 

Not much physical evidence of the friends remained-- mostly old pamphlets tucked away in cabinets, cockades, and letters addressed to each other. However, for a week after the barricades fell, on a single table there remained a half-emptied jar of ink, a burnt out candle, and an opened letter addressed to someone called “ _Hyacinth.”_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Chile, anyways, happy Bastille Day! (Or at least when I posted this.) I meant to finish this on Barricade Day but writers block hit and it took me an unrealistically long time to wrap up. I probably should've given this time to sit in my mind after I finished so I could add things that I thought of later, but instead I will be impulsively moving this out of my google drive. That's the vibe. 
> 
> But anyways, any comments/kudos are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


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